Disclaimer: I own these characters; do not take them. Except for the vaguely creepy guy at the bar. He's up for grabs, but I don't think he's housetrained.

A/N: I wrote this for no reason except that it amused me. It was Paul and Michael's eight-month wedding anniversaryon June 25th, and Paul was laughing hysterically when they came home. I managed to get this story out of him before they went off and did their own thing. ;)

Dedicated to Joey Potter, Kowai Noriko, Ishy, and blondguy for being awesome reviewers. Hah.

Dance for Madness

There was something to be said about Michael’s way of dancing, which was the musical equivalent to sex itself, but it did make one awfully thirsty, particularly if one was an asthmatic.

After rubbing circles on Paul’s back to quell a small coughing fit, Michael squeezed his shoulder and went to the bar to get some water. Paul smiled and watched him go, and tried not to have sappy thoughts like “I’m so lucky I have him” or, “My goodness, he’s cute” or, “When we get home I’m going to —“

He failed. But he didn’t really mind.

Paul wasn’t as unselfconscious a dancer as Michael was; he could get lost in music, but only if it was Mozart or Vivaldi or suchlike. Michael was the one who abandoned himself to pounding bass and screaming vocals, who seemed to meld with the strobe lights and the press of bodies and the sweat-smell. It always took him a few moments to find himself again once the music stopped; eyes focussed slowly, breathing slowed with reluctance. (Paul only danced with such abandon if he was at home and listening to Beethoven’s 9th, and even then it was something less passionate and more like prancing — or so he’d been told. But the baby loved it.)

But Paul could dance a little, when he had incentive. And Michael tugging at his collar and trying not to let his gaze flick over Paul’s lithe form while he waited for the drinks was enticement enough. Paul winked at him, and Michael rolled his eyes.

Michael wasn’t the only one looking.

Paul wrinkled his nose. A youngish man, perhaps in his mid-to-late twenties, definitely deep in his cups, sat next to where Michael was leaning; he eyed Paul with the practised ease of a barstool connoisseur. Not very cute, and didn’t look an Einstein, either. However, (Paul stifled a titter), it was clear that this one was on the wrong side of the fence, too drunk to realize that the person he was goggling was not female.

This should be fun.

Michael noticed eventually, and Paul bit his lip as a flash of jealousy crossed Michael’s features. He hoped Michael would notice before his somewhat irrational protectiveness took over — they didn’t go out as much as Michael would like because he couldn’t control himself if someone tried to get a random feel on Paul. He relaxed when Michael came to the same conclusion Paul had reached only moments before, and a small smile appeared on Michael’s face instead. “Easy,” he murmured to the man, holding up his wedding ring finger, “That one’s going home with me.”

The man gave Michael a congratulatory leer and took another pull at his drink. Paul giggled to himself and danced closer to them, enough to hear get the gist of their conversation. “Hey, just lookin’,” he said. “She’s got killer legs. Not much of a rack, though.”

Paul chomped down on his tongue to stop from laughing. He got that one a lot, though he couldn’t help be somewhat flattered by the legs comment. For this occasion (their eight-month wedding anniversary), he’d pinned the back of his hair up and curled his bangs, wore a tight-fitting, short black dress with sparkly threads, and shoes with straps that laced up to his knees (worn specifically to frustrate Michael, who took forever at getting them off him). Whenever he dressed up and came to non-sexuality-specific dance clubs, he overheard several comments about his lack of breasts.

“Mm, no, not really,” Michael grinned, and he sent Paul a deliberate smirk. “But he has the best butt I’ve ever come across.”

The man sputtered. Paul couldn’t help but let a laugh spill out, and he raised his arms over his head, grinding with an invisible partner. Michael blew him a kiss. “Is something wrong?” Michael asked, voice saccharine.

“Nah,” his new friend wiped his mouth free of beer foam, eyes wide. “Surprised, yeah, but . . . ah. Nothin’ wrong with it or anything, so long’s, you know, you guys don’t try to hit on me.”

Paul rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, chuckling as Michael visibly restrained himself from doing the same. “That’s a common misconception, really,” Michael shrugged, tracing patterns in the condensation left by his glass. Paul hoped he hurried up, because he was getting thirstier — and not to mention horny. This was amusing and all, but water in his throat and Michael in his arms was better.

“What?”

“Well, look at it this way. If you met a girl who was pushy, rude, unintelligent, and thought everyone wanted her even though she was ugly . . . would you be attracted to her?”

He made a face. “Hell no.”

Michael smiled brightly and patted him on the shoulder. “Well, there you go,” he slid off his stool, picked up both drinks, and made his way back to Paul. The man he left behind stared after him, as though certain he’d missed something but wasn’t sure what.

“I love you,” Paul took the water and downed it quickly, running the cool glass over his flushed forehead. Michael drank his and pressed the cup against the back of Paul’s neck; Paul murmured his thanks.

“Back at you,” Michael’s eyes glittered in the flashing lights, and Paul marvelled at how different, how open and almost naughty Michael became when he was in his element. Paul loved it.

They set the empty containers on the nearest flat surface, then Michael wrapped his arms around Paul from behind and led him back onto the dance floor. “Ready for another round?” his mouth was hot against Paul’s ear, and the dark-haired boy couldn’t help shivering. When he let his voice go sultry like that . . .

“Most definitely,” Paul said, amused at his own breathiness. Maybe one day he wouldn’t be so easy to seduce, but he figured that would come around the same time that Michael stopped being so hot. And in Paul’s opinion, that was never.

Michael’s fingers rested easily against Paul’s hips, body pressed flush up against him. “Then let’s dance,” he moved, Paul gasped, and the music took them both.